


A Stricken Lament

by muffliato



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Ron Weasley, F/M, Head Auror Harry Potter, Kidnapping, Murder Mystery, Mystery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-07-28 10:43:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20062726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/muffliato/pseuds/muffliato
Summary: Wizarding Britain had long since vanquished Voldemort's darkness and had been born anew. But all it takes is a butchered unicorn in Leicester Square to set the past and present aflame. For what happens when Harry Potter can't save the day? — Ron-centric Auror mystery, Harry-Ron friendship, and canon ships.





	A Stricken Lament

**A/N:** Ron Weasley may be the most criminally underutilised character in fanfiction. Poor Won-Won, getting sidelined into Hr/R fluff pieces if he’s lucky or bash!Weasley fics if he’s not. It’s almost overlooked these days that, in canon, Ron was the Samwise Gamgee to Harry’s Frodo Baggins. Ron was Harry’s best mate, not Hermione (as wonderful as she is). Ron was the bloke who happily took in another brother. No bouts of jealousy, big or small, can change that.

I crave Ron-Harry friendship fics like nothing else. But as they’re hella rare I figured I’d write my own…one with an Auror mystery to boot, as this is another fic trope that deserves more love. To backtrack and emphasis? I said Ron-Harry friendship (read: platonic bromance). Not that I’m opposed to reading slash, but in this fic the happy marriages are H/G and R/Hr.

This first chapter is written in a different style than the rest of the story (it has next to no dialogue and isn’t primarily from Ron’s point of view). If that puts you off, I can only ask that you please give the second chapter a try before setting aside this fic.

**General Disclaimer:** Though this fic is a mix-mosh of _Harry Potter_ and _Sweeney Todd_, I could only wish to approach Rowling’s or Sondheim’s extraordinary magic…or, you know, cannibalism. I’m not making a knut from this, though I am taking any and all donations of pies.

* * *

“‘I have sailed the world, beheld its wonders

From the Dardenells to the mountains of Peru,

But there’s no place like London! I feel home again.

I could hear the city bells ring, whatever I would do.

No, there’s no place like London.’”

—Anthony Hope, _Sweeney Todd_

* * *

Charlotte Fawcett was an unremarkable face striding through Hogsmeade. It was early enough that dawn had barely touched the village, where light brimmed over rooftops and had just begun to trickle to the dawn. Shopkeepers and employees strolled in under the clouds. Still-burning lanterns lined the main street, illuminating enough to cast the scattered wizards and witches in shadow. It was peaceful, rather than eery. Calm. A time to woolgather.

Lottie was as tranquil (or as tired) as the rest of the early risers. Few paid her mind. Pretty in a non-imposing way, she was a dimpled and cheery girl who had more friends than admirers. The only thing typically striking about her was a long mane of blonde, wispy hair, that bounced off her shoulders and endlessly got in the way.

But this curly hair had recently been cut and was currently smushed under a thickly knitted beret. With this, her casual outfit, and the day’s fog, this morning she blended into the musky background. Anyone who did spot her mainly noted her overflowing and colourful bag. Yet more noticed the blooming daffodils nestled between the opening shopfronts, or the few leaking raindrops.

Batting the bag against her leg, she felt the wind against her arms and grumpily pulled at her hat so it didn’t fall off. The ends of her hair were flicked as she tugged at the bob. She was still in mourning for her long hair, a casualty to a malfunctioning invention that had dyed her lower locks a vibrant blue. But the hair was a small sacrifice to be an up-and-coming inventor in a top company. She found it remarkable to have this job only a year after leaving Hogwarts. Her mum was still getting gloating reminders about the substantial pay. She felt a bit guilty for doing this. Though after spending her childhood being snapped at that her ‘immature behaviour would lead to utter unhappiness’, it was gratifying to prove the woman wrong. Bitter, she? Perish the thought.

“Spare a sickle?” a wrinkled woman in a dusty, abundantly layered dress thrust her hand up to stop Lottie. The latter’s thoughts scurried away.

“Sorry,” the younger witch murmured, side-stepping. “Have nothing on me.”

“A few knuts?” the beggar tried again, her shawl unraveling enough for the end to waggle in an imitation of its owner’s hand.

Lottie continued forward, muttering another apology which went unheard. She adjusted the hold on her bag, fidgeting until the voice had stopped behind her.

Her nervous thoughts drifted back to the upcoming work day. This was her first time presenting a solo project. Though it was a reinvention of an existing project, the Skiving Snackboxes, she’d gone about fixing the outdated product almost entirely by herself. She hoped her boss would recognise the progress. Maybe it’d create an opportunity to share some of her own inventions?

Lottie blinked up at the gridlocked clouds, trying to relax. She needed to smell the mallowsweet, like her dad always said. She bit back a snigger at the thought. As a little girl she’d had no idea about mallowsweet’s hallucinogenic properties, or its reputation, or why her mum would scowl whenever the phrase was uttered. That the drug was now residing in her new and improved Snackboxes only made the sentiment funnier!

The lanterns had begun to turn themselves off, being replaced by the rising sun. Lottie plodded down the street past The Three Broomsticks. She wondered if maybe she ought to slip some mallowsweet to her boss. Technically illegal, but it’d put him in a chipper mood for her project proposal. Maybe she should just offer him some? Knowing George Weasley, he’d snigger at her nerve. He might even take some. Whichever way, catching people by surprise could only ever help. That was why she’d snuck her way into Ravenclaw; she was still proud of how well that had turned out. No one would suspect the mousy bookworm of turning the Hogwarts professors into flamingos, after all.

She gave a breathy laugh and smiled with a confidence she almost felt. This was only a presentation, she’d do fine. Mr. Weasley was already singing her praises and calling her ‘a kindred spirit’. Even if she did mess it up, her boss was the forgiving type. He’d likely cackle and set that mad batch of pygmy puffs on her, saying it was a learning experience or such nonsense.

It had begun to properly rain, the sparse sun having disappeared into pouring droplets. A new chill spun over her skin. Tucking her hood up Lottie considered casting a small shield spell, but dismissed this. She was close to the shop, no need to fumble for her wand. She kept her eyes down to avoid the rain. Because of this, she failed to see that the few people she passed made detours around her. She didn’t note the gazes sliding past the notice-me-not charm now fluttering about her skin. Most critically, she remained ignorant of the wand extending from the invisibility cloak mere feet behind her.

As she turned a corner and the colourful Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes came into view, she stiffened. A moment later she’d crumpled to the ground, bag spilling out around her. Blind panic spiked: she couldn’t move! No one was stopping! Why weren’t they stopping? WHY COULDN’T SHE MOVE!

Lottie could no more scream for help than stop a potion from being poured between her numb lips, two strange fingers plucking her mouth open. Another hand (just a hand, the fingers, and the emptying vial—nothing else was visible though her teary gaze) tilted her head back and rubbed her throat, forcing the liquid to be swallowed.

She silently howled. Shrieked for help. Tried to wrench around and spit out the potion…all useless. She could barely blink, let alone bite down on the damn fingers leaving her lips (‘Thick fingers, a man’s? What’s happening!’).

It was as though time had halted. The panicking girl felt nothing unusual from the potion, just the smooth, hot liquid gushing inside her. She hoped with everything she had that the potion (was it a potion?) hadn’t worked. Because the only change was a warmth in her belly, one that was spreading to her limbs. Though unsettling, it didn’t hurt. But it was doing something. She screamed. Kept screaming. Even she couldn’t hear a word.

Why wasn’t anyone stopping!

‘Oh Merlin,’ Lottie panicked, the true situation creeping through strangled thoughts. ‘I can’t move! I swallowed a potion! Someone’s attacked me and…what does he want? Not, not rape? No, don’t be stupid, it’s a potion. To hurt me? Control me—oh god, is that why I can’t move!?’ She desperately tried to calm down. ‘No, no no no. The paralysis came before the potion. Why’d someone want to control me? Stupid. More likely it’s to ki—’

Lottie stabbed that last thought away, hyperventilating through her frozen muscles. Using all her strength to keep from a blind panic, she turned her gaze as much as she could, trying to thrash. By now she’d reluctantly concluded she was in a body-bind. A strong one, at that. Though people were passing her, nobody took a second glance. She wasn’t sure if desperate tears trailed down her face or if it was the rain. ‘An invisibility cloak? Has the twat turned me invisible? A notice-me-not? Why didn’t I grab my wand? What the hell was that potion!’

Because her stomach was hurting. It had started as a cramp, as though her muscles had been stretched too thin after a run. But it rapidly became much worse. In seconds? Minutes? Hours? It felt like her breakfast was being ripped to shreds, pounding against her sides. As the pain spiked and her thoughts too ached, she blearily wondered (as though this was happening to someone else, anyone else) if it was the muscles themselves being torn loose. She couldn’t curl into a ball or cry out with whatever breath was left in her lungs. Because the tearing was now in her throat, gagging and bubbling. She was barely aware of the contents of her stomach (‘As well as the potion? Please, please let the poison be boiling out’) choking her mouth, covering her teeth with spew.

Nor did Lottie notice the invisible man tilting her head to the side, allowing the bile to spill down onto her skin, hair, and the pavement. This barely reopened her airways for (with these barriers gone) the ripping and pulling continued with gusto. She didn’t notice her bag being taken or her coat patted for her wand. She never saw the consideration with which the experimental Skiving Snackboxes were received. Instead, it was as though her insides had turned to putty, every struggled breath twitching an avalanche of things loose within her. But they also seemed to be shrinking, everything within her growing smaller.

Something snapped and she lost her sight. She never knew her eyeballs rolled loose within their sockets, unseeing as the skin rippled and became inflamed. Hairs plucked up across gooseflesh follicles, bubbling like polyjuice. Her vocal chords had long since been displaced into a churning organ, rearranging itself like the rest. Her tongue lagged uselessly, colliding against a mouth and teeth and lips that were twisting with poison.

As a final fire pierced and contorted her body, every whimper had been wrenched away. Unable to cry or shriek, Lottie’s last coherent thought was a silent plea to be hit with the killing curse.

She would give anything for a painless death.

* * *

A country away from the clouds and strife, the sun’s shine burned away all darkness.

London was having a rare burst of fair weather. The atmosphere around its streets was as far from the glum Firth of Forth storm as could be. With the strange appearance of blue skies, the city had emptied out onto the pavements after a straight month of rain and wind. What remained now was merely a faint, refreshing breeze.

Parts of the city found themselves bursting at the seams. It was near impossible to enter Trafalgar Square, South Bank overflowed with buskers and tourists, the packed Westminster Bridge was a shove away from a domino effect into the Thames, and every local worth their salt avoided these places (and the corresponding Tube) like the plague. Most of the residents were more bewildered than thrilled at the clear skies. They even found themselves hesitating to go to Hyde or St. James’ Park; not because of the crowds, but in the fear that enjoying the sunlight would jinx the lovely weather away.

The magical Londoners were likewise confused at the sunny sky. Some were convinced that the day had already been hexed—ignoring the fact that altering the weather was so difficult to be near legendary. As an off-season Quidditch match was set to take place in Regent’s Park, more than a few whispered that it was being rigged. This was because the Holyhead Harpies were the underdogs in the game, and the Keeper for the opposing Tutshill Tornados was Elizabeth Szilvassy (the first part vampire in the league). That this match was taking place practically in the backyard of one Ginny Potter, ex-Chaser for the Harpies, was also greatly remarked upon.

These gossipers would have been surprised and unconvinced that Ginny had nothing to do with the sunny weather. Or that she was unaware this game was even taking place. When she found out after the fact, she was peeved her old teammates hadn’t mentioned they’d be in the park across the way from her townhouse. Said teammates would mollify her with a cheery visit, bearing gifts of baby clothes and apology biscuits (triple chocolate and caramel, thank you very much).

Whatever the case, as Ginny was touching up an article she didn’t see much of the sun. Nor did her husband, whose day was less enjoyable. In truth, Harry Potter had been having a bad few weeks at work. If prodded, he’d snap that it’d been a bad few months, and that it was entirely his so-called best friend’s fault.

As for Ron Weasley? His morning, at least, had been nice. The day had started not with a blast of sunshine through the window, but with Rose’s dulcet cries ringing out before dawn. This was such a common occurrence that he’d begun using her as an alarm clock. Luckily, the little girl was easily pacified. With a hummed lullaby the shrieks subsided into giggled murmurs; much to her sleepy parents’ relief.

At breakfast, Hermione had been distracted with worrying she’d catch Crookshanks’ cold. Ron hadn’t the faintest what she was on about, until he’d been reminded this could be bad for the foetus. That was, according to the numerous parenting books stacked in their living room. He was of the opinion that most of these books belonged in the fireplace. He’d have happily chucked them in himself, if not for the knowledge his wife would view this as an unforgivable blasphemy. Seeing as how she was already fretting about Crookshanks and annoyed with Ron for his part in ‘giving her’ morning sickness, he wasn’t about to risk it.

He was tired of the parenting advice. His mum’s nagging was enough, he didn’t need a bunch of books bothering him as well. Most importantly (as he tickled a gleefully clapping Rose, getting a sigh from Hermione as their daughter spilled her mushed carrots to the floor), he felt they were doing a pretty good job without any of that rubbish. They were excellent parents! Came naturally, he thought, and they were so brilliant it was all a piece of cake.

As Ron headed off to the Ministry (though first the Burrow, to drop off Rose with her grandparents), he wondered if he ought to vanish the offending books when Hermione wasn’t looking. When she noticed they were missing, he could always say Rose had a burst of accidental magic and turned them all invisible. Or if the genius witch didn’t buy that a toddler was behind it, he’d blame George or Harry. Maybe both. Probably both.

With all of this, he almost forgot that his newest Auror partner was an idiot and that his boss was being a passive aggressive git. He didn’t spend much time considering the work day, as he’d just wrapped up a case and would probably be on consulting. Whatever the case, he was an optimist at heart. So as he strode through muggle London and grinned at the dazzling sun, he was happy that it truly was a beautiful day.

* * *

“‘There’s a hole in the world like a great black pit,

and the vermin of the world inhabit it

and its morals aren’t worth what a pig could spit

and it goes by the name of London. […]

I too have sailed the world and seen its wonders,

For the cruelty of men is as wondrous as Peru.

But there’s no place like London!’”

—Sweeney Todd, _Sweeney Todd_

* * *

**A/N:** Though this story is canon compliant (more or less), there’s at least one big exception. I know Rowling said that Ron quit being an Auror after a few years to work with George. But for the sake of this fic I’m ignoring that and going with 1-7 book canon (which leaves his profession wide open). Also, as the tale progresses things will get odd. Dark odd. So this might be EWE. I can’t say, sorry. Spoilers? Of the ‘possible major character death’ type? Don’t say I didn’t warn you!


End file.
